


When Ladies Punch (Up)

by Missy



Category: Addams Family (TV 1964), Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: 1970s, Family, Feminist Themes, Future Fic, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wednesday has wanted to go to her mother's women's group meeting for ages.  But when fate dictates that she finally attend both Addams women end up serving the whole group a lesson in acceptance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Ladies Punch (Up)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RobberBaroness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/gifts).



“Children!”

Morticia posed at the foot of the staircase, her palm resting upon the newel post as she called up the stairs. It was odd to think of them like that that way – as children, when they’d grown up strong and true in the Addams fashion over the past few years. Wednesday had just passed her seventeenth birthday, and Pugsley had turned sixteen in ’75. Morticia was proud of the both of them; Wednesday was first in her class at mortuary school, and Pugsley was close to the top of his class in demonology. Morticia couldn’t ask for a better family. 

And there they were always growing and changing with the times – which explained Wednesday’s darling new Mohawk. The sixteen year old stalked downstairs with her homework captured in a bell jar – it was a beautifully embalmed frog. “Did I miss the bus?” 

“No, dear, I just want to make sure you get your lunches.” She rang for Lurch, who delivered two bowls of steaming liquid that seemed better suited to a festive wake than an afternoon lunch. “It’s Grandmother’s specialty,” said Morticia, pouring the liquid into a flask before passing it to Wednesday. “Newt’s tongue soup. It should help you concentrate during your finals.”

Wednesday took the soup eagerly. Then, as she found her best cape pegged up beside the door, she said, “Oh, mother, you do always know how to make me feel so dreadful! I was wondering though…could I attend your women’s group this week?” 

“Well, I’m not sure. Secret societies can be so awfully cliquey, and the gavel of truth is being power-washed out of town – I suppose you could swear your blood fealty to a picture of Susan B. Anthony, but it wouldn’t be the same...” Morticia was only teasing her child, as the group she attended every Thursday was hopelessly loaded with suburban society matrons.

Wednesday frowned. “But I want to hear more about how we’re going to violently smash the patriarchy and take control of the world or else burn it down and leave destruction in our wake!”

“No, dear, we won’t burn it down – we’ll just march into Washington en masses and demand total power. Bloodless revolutions aren’t fun, but you would want to rule a ruined world, would you?”

“I guess not,” Wednesday sighed.

“Now, where is your brother?”

As if cued, Pugsley raced downstairs, bongos slung over one shoulder and guitar the other. “Oh dear, don’t strain your back!”

“It’s cool, mumsy-o,” said Pugsley. “I’ve got places to be, ya dig? And I don’t need no…” He groped for his pants pocket, then paged through his pocket dictionary of cool beatnik phrases before smiling as he landed on the right one. “…help, man,” he said authoritatively. 

“Trying to please your father again?” Morticia mused at the sight of him.

“Yep! But to tell you the truth, I might end up in platforms by tonight. Do tell him, it might crush him.” Morticia’s heart swelled. He truly was willing to embrace the Addams tradition of trying new things, even if those things didn’t seem to go or suit with what society expected. She fondly reached up – and up – and up (for he was getting tall and taller by the day) to ruffle his hair. “Now hurry or you’ll both miss your bus.”

As they children headed out into the world, Gomez came to stand beside her, his arm wrapped around her middle. “Chips off the old block, those two,” sighed Gomez, watching the coach pull away. “We’re doing a great job with them, Tish, bang-up!”

“I think so. But I do hope Pugsley doesn’t try to write another ode to Deborah Harry during home room. I’d much rather he were celebrating Lizbeth Borden or someone with a little less glitter.” She shook her head. “That Debbie loves red an awful lot. I just wish she’d wear a little black…”

“Don’t be so hard on ol’ Debbie there! She’s got a lot of swell opinions! Ones your women’s group would probably agree with. Heck, if you met her you’d probably get along like a couple of corpses in a mausoleum!”

“Oh, I guess so. I must try to follow the espirit de corps of the whole thing.” 

“Tish,” said Gomez, before taking her hand in his and kissing his way from the back of it up toward her collarbone, “That’s definitely French.”

“It’s actually Latin,” she smiled, knowing all the while it was indeed French.

His eyes flared, earning her another kiss. “There’s my teasing little minx! My raison d’etre..now I’m doing it!” He reached for and then dipped her. “Hey…what say we flamenco our way upstairs?” he asked lightly.

She kissed him back, passionately, gently kicking the door closed behind them. “I think I would prefer a waltz,” she said.

And a waltz it was.

|||

Dolores Johnson was what society would call a good woman. Sober, churchgoing, and with a happy family. She’d started up her society – called, for wont of a better name, the Women’s League – in the hope of asserting herself in her marriage and social class. Things had certainly been interesting since Missus Addams had decided to throw herself in with the lot of them, but Dolores refused to complain – after all, the meetings were often more about dreamy longing speeches for power followed by thinly-veiled complaints about their families. She rolled her eyes and said to the small gathering of women sitting by her, “and you wouldn’t believe what my husband said when I told him I was coming to this meeting!”

“What?” asked Betty Smith, leaning closer.

“Why, he said if I want to wear the pants in the family I should go out and work for a living, just like him!”

An outraged gasp went up from the group that had congregated in Sue Jones’ living room. From everyone but Morticia, who sat up a little straighter. “Maybe you should!” she said spiritedly. “Women have had jobs for centuries, after all. We’ve been bakers, business owners, queens, head torturers, poisoners, farmers, pillagers…”

Her audience hummed at the notion. “Well,” said Dolores. “I suppose we could try to put together something. How about a bake sale or a lemonade stand?”

“Oh, that’s children’s work,” groused Sue. “We need something more interesting!”

A knock sounded at the door, and Sue’s maid rushed to open it. A pale-skinned girl with a coal-black Mohawk promptly stepped over the threshold, a large cloth-bound package held securely under her right arm. “Wednesday, what are you doing here?” Morticia worried. “Did the coach drop you off at that flower shop?”

“No, it wasn’t anything that terrible,” Wednesday said. “I decided to walk home since it’s such a nice day.”

“But it’s pouring rain!” Dolores said.

The girl grinned. “All it’s missing is a good-sized hail storm!” She happily approached the circle of women. “I called Lurch and asked where you’d gone, and it wasn’t hard to track you here.”  
Morticia smiled. “Wednesday, meet Dolores, Sue, and Betty. Ladies, this is my daughter Wednesday.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Betty.

“What an interesting name,” offered Dolores.

“She’s named for my favorite day. The one filled with woe,” said Morticia. 

“Well, that matches her…unusual…hair,” said Sue.

“Would you mind if I stayed?” Wednesday asked. “Mother’s told me so much about your meetings, and I’d love to help.”

“Well isn’t that lovely?” said Betty. “Of course you may! Good show, Morticia – we need to get as many young girls interested in their future as possible!”

The wet Wednesday took her place beside her mother, and the meeting progressed along normally, until the business idea resurfaced. “I have an idea,” said Wednesday.

“Chair yields to Wednesday Addams,” beamed Morticia.

“What’s your idea, child?” asked Susan. 

“It’s right under my arm.” She pulled took the object from its place beside her and placed it on her knee, unwrapping it until a perfectly taxidermied aardvark was revealed.

All of the women shrieked in horror – except for Morticia, of course. She smiled at her daughter’s accomplishment. “What a beautiful job, Wednesday! Those eyes are looking straight through my soul!”

“What sort of hideous animal is that?” gagged Susan.

“It’s not hideous,” Wednesday said. “It’s part of my final project at taxidermy school!” 

“And it has character!” Morticia defended. 

“THAT’S your idea for a business?” asked Betty. “Taxidermy!?”

“There aren’t any shops in town,” Wednesday said, “we could make thousands of dollars with the right advertising!”

“And all of it would go back into the club’s funds! We could do so much good with that money sisters! Just think of what’s possible!” Morticia said.

The other women exchanged nervous glances. “Morticia, your daughter’s plans…while probably effective…are a bit too unusual for us to explore. Maybe another time, but for now let’s table the discussion and have some tea.”

Wednesday looked crestfallen but deliberately kept a stoic expression, a hand clutching her knee the only gesture that dared betray her anger. But her mother wouldn’t be silenced, and she sprung to her feet. “I don’t think you’re rejecting her idea because it’s unusual. I think you’re rejecting her because she’s different.”

 

“Of corse not,” said Sue. “We accept all kinds of women into our society. But you do understand that we need to maintain level of decorum!” 

“Decorum means nothing when lives are on the line,” Morticia declared. “Don’t you understand that?” 

“Order!” Sue yelled. For wont of a Gavel of Truth to bang, she started slapping her now-empty paper plate against her lpa.

Morticia just gave a sad look to the sad faces surrounding her. Silence filled the room. The dark-haired woman stood to leave. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave this group.” She noted that no one dared ask her to stay as her daughter followed her to the door. “I’m in this fight for all sorts of women – not just the ones who say the right things and have impeccable manners. I hope you enjoyed my finger sandwiches. Goodbye.”

 

Outside, the rain poured in chilly sheets upon the pavement. Morticia smiled broadly, then popped open her umbrella. “It’s such a nice day. Let’s walk home.”

Wednesday frowned. “I’m sorry I got between you and your group, mother. I so wanted to help other women like you do.”

“Don’t worry about them, dear. There are other groups in town that will be perfectly happy with an Addams touch. That lot probably couldn’t tell that Lurch spent hours carefully sanding down calluses for those finger sandwiches.” As they strolled into the rain, Morticia asked, “What happened to your little friend?”

“I left him somewhere special during your speech,” said Wednesday.”For the greater good.”

Three hours later, Dolores Johnson’s maid found a very angry-looking armadillo hidden among the canapés at her dinner party and promptly fainted.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this little treat! The idea of the Addamses being in the 70s got me thinking about what teenaged Wednesday might end up doing and I started thinking of her graveyard of dolls. You just know she'd end up trying to prepare or preserve life in some way. And I couldn't resist the notion of feminist! Morticia, either, even though her group ended up being a bit more priggish than intended.
> 
> Quick thanks to my betas, who tried to comb out all the knots in this one!


End file.
